Path to the West, A Witcher's Story
by NineNails
Summary: Taking place in the year 1026, almost 200 years before the exploits of the famed Geralt of Rivia, a young Ofieri born witcher sets of on the path, across a monster terrorized world, in search of his place within it.
1. The Path

Chapter one: To The Path

Jerome lied in wait, the muddy swamp waters up to his waist, his silver sword unsheathed and resting on his shoulders. He pushed some of the brush aside to gain a better look at the helpless squirrel he had hung on to a branch just low enough to break the surface of the water with every struggle to escape. Jerome was sorely impressed, it had almost been an hour and the little animal was still struggling as profusely as the moment the witcher had caught him.

 _'_ _But I suppose all animals are like that when they know they are in danger.'_ Jerome thought to himself. _'Probably why_ _ **they**_ _haven't poked their heads out of the water yet.'_

Jerome wasn't the type to moan or complain about his lot in life. After all, his trade was in stark demand and as his masters had told him time and time again _'witchers, at least in the north, are respected members of society!'._ Jerome, however, was yet to be received with praise or heraldry by the peasants he so often protected. Sometimes he thought it was his Ofieri heritage that put them off, after all, he must have been the only dark skinned man north of the Pontar river. But ever so often he would catch his reflection in a mirror or still water and realize that a witcher's cat like eyes must be just as frightening to them, if not more so. But neither of these factors made him lament a life he imagined having, were he was someone completely different, for him it was the little things that bothered him. Like in that very moment the swamp water had soaked through his leather pants and they began to chafe his groin.

Just as he was about to wade his way out of the water, to remove his britches, he heard the ever so slight bubbling of something exhaling under water. So instead he reached into his front pouch then pulled out a glass vial marked 'Owl' and drunk the viscous purple potion in one gulp. He grimaced as he tried to clear his throat as quietly as possible, but the painfully familiar burn that it left behind always made the initial moments of its effects very uncomfortable.

Just as a drowner sprung out of the water at the squirrel, Jerome leaped out of his hiding spot and with a well-positioned strike took the monsters head clean off. The strike was so well placed, it even cut the rope from which the squirrel dangled allowing the little animal to escape. Jerome took a moment to inspect his work. _'Defeated in one stroke, and the bait even got to escape. Didn't really need the potion after all.'_ He gloated to himself. He spotted the drowner's head bobbing not too far away from him and made his way to it. As he reached out to grasp it, a pale, webbed claw broke the stillness of the swamp surface, grabbed him by the wrist and his cat eyes widened before he was dragged under.

Struggling to get his arm free of the drowner he attempted to strike at it with his silver sword. But before he could manage a swing, another larger arm grabbed him from behind, pushing him deeper into the muck and driving a set of sharp teeth into his shoulder. Luckily for the witcher, the teeth weren't long enough to make its way passed his gambeson jacket. Unluckily for the witcher, the combined weight of the two drowners he now fought was going to keep him under water, however, he felt the potion induced burn finally reach his extremities and was ready to take the offensive.

He elbowed the smaller of the two getting his empty hand free, then quickly cast the sign for Aard. The telekinetic gust of wind sent both monsters flying to the swamp's shallows. After two deep breaths of air and a moment to wipe his mop of pitch black hair out of his face, he made his way to the bank where the monsters too were recuperating. The smaller of them had landed on some ground where the water was shallowest and already rose to its feet. The larger of the two was dazed, crawling on all fours attempting to get back into deeper waters. As Jerome neared the dazed drowner, the smaller of the two sprang to its aid. Jerome quickly made the sign for Igni and set the Jumping Monster ablaze in midair, sending it back into the shallow water in the feeble attempt to put itself out.

Jerome stood over the big drowner. It got up on its knees and tilted its scaly head back. The witcher stared into its big black eyes, empty and expressionless like most monsters were, then swung at it taking its head from its shoulders. He then turned and directed his attention toward the last one, it's smoldering ruins stemming above the water, it's disfigured extremities twitching slightly. Jerome placed his boot on the drowner's chest and swung his silver sword down on the monster's neck, it's blood and viscera spraying up onto Jerome's already ruined jacket.

Jerome collected the heads as proof of his work, dumped them in a rough spun burlap sack, and tied them to his saddle. As he got on his horse to ride off he noticed the squirrel, perched on the very branch from which the witcher had dangled him from, starring at him.

"What are you looking at? You weren't almost drowned."

An hours ride later, the witcher arrived at the village that hired him. Upon which he was greeted with the usual stern looks and hesitant nods. Upon reaching the alderman's house, Jerome unmounted. But before he could undo the sack containing the severed drowner heads the villager's leader stepped out of his hut to greet him.

"Back so soon Master witcher?" he shouted, purposefully loud, for the whole village to hear. "I suppose it was the right idea to call for a professional." The Alderman wasn't a particularly old man. This led Jerome to believe that he had not been Alderman for very long and there for had to boast about every achievement regardless of its significance.

"I'm not a Master, and you owe me ninety coppers." Jerome stated plainly, handing the village leader the red stained sack of heads.

The Alderman's smile turned into a frown at the sight of the sack. It might have been the sight of the sack of gore, or the smell of cadaver that wafted off of it and the witcher that made the old man's face turn sour. But Jerome suspected it had more to do with the mention of the price of his services.

The Aldermen babbled for a bit before hesitantly saying: "We agreed on thirty." In a much quieter voice.

"We agreed on thirty per head, regardless of size. I brought you three." Jerome explained just as plainly as he did before, jangling the bag of monster heads.

The Alderman's face turned red as he began to sweat, then bed the witcher to enter his hut. "Woman! Bring the Master witcher some ale! The dark kind if we have any!" he called out at his small timid wife as soon as he entered his home. He then quickly turned to the witcher, still passing the doorway. "You enjoy dark ale, don't you?"

Jerome raised an eyebrow at the Alderman's question. But was too tired to argue with him. "That would be nice, thank you." He answered. Jerome looked around the hut wondering where he could drop the bag.

"Please leave the… ah, trophies outside, Master witcher." The Aldermen sheepishly plead. Jerome nodded and dropped them before closing the door behind him. The Aldermen's hut, though larger than the others in the village, was modestly furnished with a bare wooden table and log stools surrounding it.

He then unbuckled his sword belt, leaned the sheathed weapon on the table corner, sat, waited for the tiny Aldermen's wife to pour his drink and took a long gulp of ale. _'I hate this part'_ Jerome thought to himself before inhaling deeply and attempting to speak.

"I can't pay you the whole sum." The Alderman quickly and directly stated, cutting Jerome off. "I asked you to kill the drowner who was terrorizing our village." Though they were in Alderman's home, he continued to speak in a hushed tone.

"And I told you drowners hunt in packs. If I left the other two alive, they would have killed more of your villagers." Jerome reminded him.

"Please Master witcher, I haven't the money." The Alderman continued to plead.

Jerome leaned back on his stool, as far back as he could without falling off, and sighed. "I can't accept a mere thirty coppers. The guild won't allow it." This was also true, however, witchers do more often than not haggle over the price of their crevices, but what worried Jerome was what his masters would say if he returned to the bastion with only a portion of what he could have earned.

"Could you except the difference in trade?" The Aldermen insisted.

Jerome, being a terrible haggler and exhausted, glanced over at the Alderman with his cat eyes and asked: "What does your village have to offer?"

The Alderman seemed so delighted, that the witcher was being so forthcoming, that he was back to his louder tone of voice. "The onion harvest just came in! I could offer you two sacks." Jerome let a clearly audible groan loose. He did not wish to offend his host or his community, but not only were onions an astonishingly cheap crop, but he also disliked the smell. The Aldermen quickly picked up on this, added: "A… and some rabbits my son trapped this morning."

The Onions and rabbits wouldn't have been enough for one drowner head, let alone two. Jerome took the last swig of is ale, inhaled deeply and reminded himself that he was at the very least, not returning home empty handed. Jerome agreed and the Aldermen had the goods loaded on his horse, handed him a purse containing the thirty coppers and bade him farewell.

Just as Jerome was about to mount, his eyes darted to a patch of red approaching him. "Witcher Jerome? I had no clue you'd be here today." A young, freckled faced girl smiled greeting him with arms extended. She was the eldest daughter of a friendly smith from a neighboring village. They too called on the help of the local witcher's guild, no more than a season ago. Jerome was given the task of dealing with an infestation of ghouls that plagued their graveyard.

"Don't!" Jerome abruptly stopped her from reaching arm's length. "I've been working today." He looked down at his stinking ruin of a jacket. "And you look lovely, Roxelana." He noted her floral patterned dress.

"Oh Jerome, that didn't bother me." She blushed, remembering the night they spent together after he drove the monsters from her hometown. He seemed so strong and brave and her aunt had once mentioned that witchers could not sire children and felt little emotion, so no one would ever need to know of her indiscretion.

"I suppose it didn't." he too had to smile to himself. The thought of how pretty and pale and freckled all over her body was would have made him blush if his complexion would have allowed it. Her fiery red hair had caught his eye upon arriving at her father's smithy, but Jerome had little experience interacting with women and was much too self-aware of his own appearance to speak to someone as pretty as she was. Yet she chose to visit him that night, to bring him food and comfort. He had never known such tenderness as she showed him that night. He attempted to visit her multiple times after that, yet his guild Masters always had work and other duties for him keeping him from it.

just as the witcher was about to ask her why she was visiting. A tall brawny man approached Roxalana from behind, placed a wreath of wild flowers on her head and kissed her on her cheek. "Almost everything has been prepared, my love." He giddily embraced her, almost lifting the red headed madden from the ground.

For a moment, Jerome felt taken back at the sight of another man laying his arms on Roxalana, but then it occurred to him: her dress, the floral wreath and, as he had just noticed, the large bonfire some villagers were building at the village's center.

"You!" The tall brawny villager exclaimed as he noticed the witcher. "You must be the Master witcher who saved our homestead!" He spoke louder as he got closer to Jerome. "And father just told me you were willing to take some of your reward in trade." He grabbed Jerome's hand from his side and squeezed it tightly. "Father wouldn't have been able to afford Roxalana's dowry if you hadn't." This made Jerome retract his hand from the friendly shake a bit too abruptly. An awkward moment hung between the three, before the Aldermen's son insistently broke the silence. "Will you stay for the feast Master? We'd be honored to have you." Jerome felt as though there was a fruit pit caught in his throat. But even if he could audibly voice his thoughts, there wasn't a thought in his mind.

"My father could use some help unloading the cart," Roxalana stated sweetly, as she laid a hand on her betrothed's back. He smiled, kissed her on her cheek once more, then jogged off to do her bidding. Her smile faded as she turned her attention back to the witcher. "I wanted to tell you…" she trailed off.

Jerome sighed, he didn't actually believe Roxalana would wait for him. witchers did not marry. They were infertile, and so it made no sense. She was of prime marrying age and an Aldermen's son was generally better suited to peasant life then witchers were. Jerome reached into his front pouch for the purse filled with copper coins and handed it to the red-haired maiden. "A wedding gift. It's not much, but new families need all the help they can get." Roxalana hesitantly accepted it, nodding without saying anything else.

 _'_ _Whoever spread the rumor that witchers have no emotions, is a fucking moron.'_ Jerome kept himself from saying that aloud as he got on his chestnut brown mare and strode off, leaving the simple people to their celebration.

It took Jerome almost half a day to reach the witcher Bastion of Ban Gora. By that time, it had almost gotten dark. But witchrs with their cat eyes could see in the dark and Jerome had already crossed the wooden bridge, the same one he had repaired on multiple occasions, hundreds of times in the years living and training at the Bastion. He had reinforced the bridge's weaker points with new boards and nails almost every year after the winters and still the damn thing would creak with every step his horse made. It wasn't long until the tall curved walls of the circular bastion came into view. Unlike most witcher schools, the bastion awarded to the school of the griffin was relatively new. They originated from a colony of renegade mages in eastern Redania, but after the school's Founder, Grandmaster Rigor lifted a curse from the Kedwheni line of succession the witcher school of the griffin was awarded a relatively new keep and free roam in the northern kingdom of Kedwin.

The two pages, still training in the torch-lit courtyard, were quick to drop their practice swords and dart to the stables to assist the witcher and hopefully be the first to hear of his adventurous hunt. However, as they realized it was Jerome who had returned their dash slowed into an unmotivated jog. They knew the kinds of monsters he hunted were mundane and unexciting. He didn't blame them. He was one of them, barely five years ago. So excited to hear of exotic monsters and the cunning ways the Masters would stalk and cut them down. So giddy at the aspect of earning his own griffin head medallion and wielding his own silver plated sword, with which he would banish all evil from the land, and the maddens would swoon at his sight, and the peasantry would lay tokens of respect and affection at his feet.

However, he learned quickly that evil had a terrible habit of hiding in dark and dingy places, that maddens often preferred tall, virile men and the peasantry, no matter how thankful they were to be rid of monsters, regarded witchers as an equally hideous nuisance. After all, witchers were not quite human themselves.

"Wellcome home, brother Jerome!" the taller, blonder one of the two greeted him, slightly out of breath from the less than motivated jog, but friendly none the less.

"Greetings boys!" Jerome waved them over. He handed the one who greeted him the onions and rabbits he had earned on his hunt. "Take them straight to the kitchens." He instructed, then prepared to stable his mare. The shorter, quieter one added him.

"Took payment in trade again?" The boy said as he hung the horse's bridle.

"They are poor, Tybalt. I took what I could." Jerome answered the page, as he began brushing the chestnut brown mare. Jerome liked Tybalt, he thought they were similar in many ways. They were booth taken by beast master Garth at an early age, booth the shortest and scrawniest on their classes and booth the last expected to survive the trial of grasses.

"Brother George returned this morning while you were away," Tybalt informed Jerome, as he too began brushing. "He brought back a wyvern's head."

"Is that so?" Jerome did his best to conceal the discontent in his voice. Jerome was George's senior by a year, yet George had quickly surpassed him in all witcher disciplines.

"I'll finish up here." Tybalt insisted. "You have to report to the masters now, correct?" he asked leading Jerome's horse into the bastion stables.

Jerome grunted at the aspect of what came next. The walk to the Grandmaster's chamber wasn't far from the courtyard but he took his time. Not wanting to be chastised for doing the 'right thing' was a justification in itself, however, Jerome knew he was at fault in this case. And so he tried again and again to find some argument to present to the Grandmaster. ' _They were so poor they had nothing else to pay me with… No, all peasants are poor, that's never an excuse. They had no money, so the aldermen tried to give me his doughtier… No, Grandmaster would ask me where the girl is. When I returned to collect my reward, the village vanished! No, that's the stupidest thing I've ever thought of…._ '

Jerome was so consumed with the formulation of his excuses, he hadn't realized he had almost passed the Grandmasters chambers. Just as Jerome was about to knock on the overly ornate doors, a familiar deep, gruff voice ordered him to enter.

Grandmaster Sora Von Gynvale was a short and skinny man. On first glance, one would have mistaken him for a starved dwarf, not only based on his stature but also how he would braid his beard and adorn each of his fingers with a gold ring. "Witcher Jerome… have a seat, beast master Garth and I would like to have a word." The Grandmaster gestured to a chair in front of his desk.

Jerome had not noticed master Garth's presents, obscured by the high-backed chair he sat on kept him from sight and the terrible incense, Grandmaster Sora insisted on burning, alienated all other scents. He took his place in silence and nodded at Master Garth in recognition.

"Jerome, how long has it been since your Trial of the grasses?" The Grandmaster asked as he filled a cup of water for himself.

Jerome cleared his thought and scratched a nonexistent itch on his chin. "Almost six years now, possibly more." He noticed how Master Garth shifted in his chair and stiffly fixed his cat eyes firmly on the grandmaster's ebony desk. He seemed unusually tense. Jerome knew him as a joyful and laid-back individual, this made leaving his family and traveling to a foreign land almost tolerable.

"Yes, so many promising Pages that year." The Grandmaster lamented Jerome being the only one to survive his transformations. "And the assignments you have been completing, Tell me about them." Grandmaster Sora pulled a large leather bound book from his shelf behind him and laid it out on his desk between the three of them.

Jerome knew where the Grandmaster was going. At least once a year, since his transformation, he would summon Jerome for evaluation. To check on his progression in the witcher trade, as he would put it. To Jerome, it was the Grandmaster's way of comparing him to better witchers and 'motivate' him to do better. "Same as last year, and the year before," Jerome grunted, in an unmotivated tone.

"I see it here." Grandmaster Sora pointed the record out in his leather bound book. "You've exterminated two necker tribes, a ghoul infestation and… a nest of harpies?" the Grandmaster questioned, with a raised brow.

"They aren't endemic to our region. I suppose they migrated." Jerome answered with a slightly prideful tone. They were literally the most exotic monsters he had ever hunted. "And just this morning I hunted a family of drowners." He added, knowing full well that it did not aid his situation.

"And that's exactly the problem, brother Jerome." The Grandmaster closed the book with a dramatic thud. "You have been practicing the trade for almost six years now. And still you hunt the most insignificant creatures in our domain. Creatures that only bother peasants in isolated villages. Presents who can't pay for your services."

Jerome should have kept his mouth shut, and he usually did when being scolded. "Witchers protect people from monsters. It's the only thing we are good for." Master Garth's gaze went from wondering the office straight to his apprentice in shock. No one spoke back to Grandmaster Sora.

The Grandmaster, however, was as calm as always. Lent over his desk, resting his elbows on it and picking at his impeccably braided beard in contemplation. "And who do you think pays for your good works? Who feeds you? Who maintains the bastion you live in? Who do you think paid for your silver sword?" The Grandmaster's gaze grew colder with every question. "Brother George returned just this morning with the head of a wyvern and five gold Ducats. That's who pays. You've been relying on your witcher brothers, your guild, all your life." Grandmaster Sora leaned back in his ornate wooden chair to get at some folded documents in his desk's drawers. "Master Garth and I have decided that the best thing for you is to get out into the world." The Grandmaster handed Jerome a thick, folded piece of parchment with the Griffin school's seal embossed in red wax on its top. "These are your journeymen's papers. Where ever it is you choose to go, we wish you all the best."


	2. With Fang and Talon

Chapter 2: With Fang and Talon

The mist hung thick and soup like, robbing all sight from any travelers during the sun obscured hours of early morning. Jerome would have preferred to sleep till noon. However, the cold damp earth prevented deep sleep from taking hold for long. He passed at least three inns since he left the witcher bastion, but without a coin to his name he had no way of convincing anyone to take him in. After the second day of sleeping under trees, with little more than a blanket for shelter, he contemplated selling his horse. That money would have kept him fed and sheltered for almost a year if he lived modestly. But what would he have done next? Sell his witcher medallion and silver sword? That path quickly led to a life of banditry or begging.

Heading to the southern border, to Aedern, was his best chance to make some coin. _'Where there is war, there is witcher's work.'_ Master Garth always insisted. He had no idea where he would go after that, but the money would definitely help. Jerome rode with his eyes closed, the were of little use to him. But his ears guided him well. He followed the faint clicking of iron-clad men not too far ahead and the smell of burning torches laced the air around him.

"Halt!" echoed the voice of clearly exhausted guardsmen. Jerome was closer than he thought. "State ya business!" shouted another, much more motivated guard.

"I'm a witcher, looking for work," Jerome shouted back, as he groped in his front pouch for his journeyman's papers.

"Don't bother!" shouted the motivated guard. "We've got too many of your kind as is."

Jerome knew he wasn't the only witcher travailing the north, but he never thought his services would be turned away so quickly. He got off his mare and made his way to the guards. There had to be some way to convince them. Some lesser jobs he could do, after all, battlefields were littered with enough corpses to attract every ghoul for hundreds of yards.

"Look, we can give ya safe passage to Aedern, if that's wat ya-" continued the motivated guard, before his comrade cut him off.

"He's a Master!" exclaimed the exhausted guard, his fatigue no longer visible. "He's got a griffin medallion. Not two summers ago a master from his school slew a basilisk near my village. I saw it with me own eyes."

"Basilisks don't usually live this far north. Was most likely a Cockatrice." Jerome blurted out.

The suddenly less tired, guardsmen grabbed Jerome by the shoulder and began to pull him towards the now visible military camp. "That's exactly what I'm saying! I'm terribly sorry we didn't recognize ya earlier Master, but we are in terrible need of a good witcher."

Jerome was barely able to wrestle his arm free from the guardsmen's ironclad grasp.

"Please come with me Master, the Quartermaster will explain everything." The guardsmen ensured, keeping Jerome from explaining how he was no Master and how the school of the Griffen had not dispatched him to deal with their situation.

 _'_ _This way I might at least make some money…'_ Jerome reassured himself as he rubbed at his sore neck.

The Kedwini military camp was a collection of roaches shouts from disorganized bodies of men, horse, and half assembled sedge-machinery. In short: a logistical nightmare. The usually yellow tents were now caked with mud and soot. And what seemed to be the mess tents were charred around the top, as if a fire had recently broken out.

 _'_ _Maybe a wraith has been plaguing the camp… it would explain the chaos and fear.'_ Jerome summarized. He had never encountered a more spiritual monster, he had however read Master Horik Van Doom's 'How to hunt a haunting' and felt well versed in the various methods of banishing spirits.

"Quartermaster Major Tygen! My I present Master Witcher… ah" the guardsmen struggled, having realized he had never asked for Jerome's name.

"Witcher Jerome, of the school of the griffin." Jerome completed his own introduction.

"Bloody hell!" Major Tygen exclaimed as he abruptly stood, knocking over a goblet of wine on to a collection of maps and stacks of assorted parchments. "Oh, ah a Master you say?" he quickly recovered, wiping his hands over his uniform. "Thank you for bringing him to me soldier, you're dismissed."

The guardsmen saluted his superior and laid a hand on Jerome's shoulder, as he turned to exit the tent. "Hope you slay the basted." He stated, giving the witcher a meaningful look before finally exiting.

"The camaraderie of men at arms. A beautiful thing, no?" From what Jerome could tell, the Quartermaster had to have been of noble birth. He was a chubby man of middling age, afflicted with patterned balding and, judging by the empty bottles that littered the tent and the encrusted wine stain on his jerkin, a slight drinking problem. There was no way a soldier of common stalk could have worked his way up and retained the position in his state of being. Either that or the Kedwini military had sunken lower than Jerome thought possible.

"I was told there would be work for me." Jerome stepped deeper into the candle lit tent.

The Major unabashedly took a closer look at Jerome, undoubtedly wondering if his drunken eyes were playing a trick on him. "Did the witchers of the griffin school… do something to you?" he asked carefully.

Every witcher encounters some variation of this question during their journey. Normally the question would be directed at their cat eyes. However, in Jerome's case, it was usually about his skin tone. "No more than the usual mutations. I'm Ofieri by birth." Jerome answered.

"Oh… Ofier, of course. I had no idea the Ofier had witchers."

"They don't, I was taken as a boy." An awkward stillness hung between them.

The Quartermaster waddled back to his desk after shaking Jerome's hand and refilled the goblet he had just spilled. "Ah… a drink, Master witcher?"

"Only water, if you have any," Jerome answered plainly.

"Right! Staying sober, the mark of a professional. I like that…" the chubby Major rattled on, as he took another gulp of wine. "I'm glad a Master showed up. However, I'm not sure I can make use of you."

"How so? Your guard made it sound as if you had a serious problem on your hands." Jerome also wanted to remark upon the sad state of the military encampment but kept it to himself having thought better of it.

"Well we do, several in fact. Most non-monster related." Major Tygen handed Jerome an unopened water skin, before finishing his wine and refilling the goblet again. "The men are undisciplined, the equipment is faulty and our position is comparable. No wonder the damn Aedern laugh at us from across the Pontar." The Quartermaster took another break, so he could empty his goblet into his gullet. "But back to the point. I already have three witchers running around camp. Two from the school of the cat, who can't seem to handle more than the odd corpse-eater. And one from the wolf school, who's been hunting the damn forest beast for almost a week now. So as you can see, we have all the monster hunter's we could need."

Jerome's ears perked up at the mention of a best. "a whole week to hunt one beast? It must be a menace indeed."

"The beast murdered a troop of scouts shortly after we set up camp, further more the dam thing keeps attacking anyone who tries to chop down the damn trees. Anyway, days later the witchers started showing up and the wolf was the only one foolhardy enough to tack the contract. My guess is the monster did away with him as well." Quartermaster Tygend sat back in his chair and began rummaging through his ruined stacks of paper.

"If that's true, then you are in need of a new professional. What is the beast like?" Jerome neared the table to steal glances at the Quartermaster's mess, but could read nothing out of the hodgepodge of papers.

"All the one man who has returned could say was, that it had horns. But if you insist I can't stop you. The bounty is five gold ducats."

There were plenty of forest dwelling beasts who had horns, most of witch Jerome knew he stood no chance against. But the prospect of earning more gold than he had ever seen made him almost giddy. "Well, in that case, I'll be on my way."

"Jolly good Master witcher, I wish you happy hunting."

The forest, surrounding Ban Glean's western front along the Pontar river, was a seemingly endless wall of green. The thicket forced Jerome to leave his mare in the Kdewini camp and track the beast on foot. The knotted roots protruding from the ground at every angle made Jerome choose every step with methodical intent. And though it was noon, the canopy of leaves kept almost all light from reaching him. He closed his eyes and focused, tuned out the incessant twitter and shallow calm his surroundings conveyed. And soon the distinct smell of rust and rot guided him to the crushed corpse of an iron clad soldier.

His chain mail and a steel plate were crumpled like paper, pinned against a tree and missing several limbs. The deep claw formed tracks leading up to the poor soldier's corps veered off and guided the dark witcher to a series of similarly mangled bodies strewn across a bright clearing. At first similarly disfigured soldiers, then what seemed to be mangled villagers by the rags that clothed the still recognizable ones. "It's aggressive…" Jerome whispered to himself, kneeling down to pick up a tuft of fur.

The metallic smell of congealed blood did little to mask what the witcher believed to be the beasts sent. Yet there was something else, the familiar oder of a witcher's blade oil.

Jerome's griffin-shaped medallion vibrated, and as he had practiced a hundred times before, he sprang from his crouched position, and simultaneously cast the sign of Quen, protecting him from a blaze of pyrokinetic fire scorching everything around him. The assailant, un detoured by Jerome's skill, continued his attack by jumping through the black smoke and swinging down at Jerome with enough veracity and might to split a normal man in two.

Jerome's muscle memory kicked in once again and he drew his silver sword hanging over his right shoulder and parried the attack, guiding the attacker to his left and pivoting the blade for a counterattack.

Unlike most swordsmen, the aggressor leaned into his attack making him too close to strike. He then drove the pommel of his sword into Jerome's thy, toppling the dark witcher over. "I've been tracking this bastard for almost a week." He spoke, while placing his boot on Jerome's chest. "And I'll be plowed if I let some armature take it from me."

Though on his back, Jerome was now finally able to get a good look at his assailant. He was, from what Jerome could tell, a pale short man not much older than Jerome was himself. The pale witcher was at least a head shorter than Jerome but built like a brick house. Broad shouldered and clearly muscular, even under his jerkin and chainmail. His wolf head medallion hung tight from his stump of a neck. His dark hair was cut short and combed back neatly much like a man of culture, yet his wild scruff of beard conveyed a more honest appearance of a man who had lived in a forest for almost a week. What was most striking though were his witcher eyes. The same kind of eyes that stared back at Jerome every time he saw his own reflection. "Major Tygend made it sound as if you were dead."

"Who?" the pale witcher questioned, while shifting his boot on Jerome's chest.

"The Kedwini Quartermaster." Jerome clarified.

"That drunk wouldn't know if something died if it had crawled up his ars first." The pale witcher lifted his boot from Jerome. "as you can see I'm fine, and you best be on your way before you're not."

Jerome got up, using his silver sword for support as he did. "You've taken this long to hunt the beast, you might want some help."

"I don't need a damn thing. The beast is a fiend, there good at hiding and avoiding people." He looked around as if the clues were all around him.

"I don't think so." Jerome walked over to a brown heap he had only just noticed. "The tracks are too small to be a fiend's. And from what I can tell, it's awfully aggressive." Jerome bent over to inspect the beast's droppings. He paused having realized they were still warm.

"I don't know who you think you are, but as a seasoned professional: I say it's a fiend. And-!" before the pale witcher could finish his sentence, Jerome sprinted passed him, followed by the familiar crunch of snapping trees and a blood-curdling roar of a furious ram-headed monster.

Its ram shaped head knocked over trees and rocks with little effort, its clawed hoofs trampled and crushed anything they landed on. A wall of wild meat and bone and sinew stampeded against the pale witcher at a breakneck speed. Though sword in hand he stood no chance at halting the beast, so he cast the sign of Quen and stood his ground.

The beast roared again as he smashed the magical barrier as if it were a pain of glass, sending the pale witcher flying through the clearing. The chort circled around, its claws digging into the dirt and preparing itself for a second charge. It bellowed through its snout and dipped its head toward the injured witcher, still reeling from the first attack. And as the chort crouched, it yelped a horrific screech of pain and toppled over.

Jerome used the diversion to cut through the beast's tendons making its hind legs useless. The beast howled and clawed at him, as he circled it, quickly making his way toward his injured guildsmen. "Can you stand?"

"I'll do you one better." The pale witcher added, grabbing Jerome's arm for stability. "I'll help you collect that bounty."

"Bloody hell!" The pale witcher protested, in a fit of pain and anger.

"If your fingers weren't so thick and clumsy, you could stitch your own wounds." Jerome tugged at the silk tethered needle again, making sure the gash along his new friend's shoulder-blade would heal well. "I told you it was aggressive. You should have run with me."

"I've spent too many days tracking that beast. Wasn't about to let it slip through my fingers." He took another gulp of vodka from his flask and cringed as the liquid burned the back of his neck.

"Ah, that's why you let the monster go through **you**?" Jerome emphasized the last word. But instead of a chuckle, the pale witcher let out a grunt of pain as Jerome severed the string of silk at the nape of his neck. "There, the wolf lives to hunt another day."

"And the wolf thanks the griffin for his knowledge and assistance." The pale witcher pawed at the mended wound across his shoulder, only to have Jerome slap his hand away.

"It's rare but witchers still get infections." Jerome grabbed his water-skin to wash his hands and sewing implements. "From the many scars on your body, I can tell that you've been lucky."

"The school in Ker Morhen doesn't teach medical training."

"They don't seem to teach tracking either." Jerome jested as he sat on a log beside their campfire.

The pale witcher didn't find it the least bit funny but did not act out in anger either. "I wasn't the best at many things."

Jerome could completely sympathize. He too was lacking in some of the finer aspects of good witchering. "Where will you go now?"

"Don't think I can stay at the Kedwini camp now, without getting into a fight with the cat witchers." He scratched at his overgrown beard. "Besides the camp will move on soon, now that they can chop down the woods and cross further downstream." The pale witcher got up to hand Jerome his flask of vodka. "Do you know where you'll be going?"

The question plagued Jerome like a bad itch, always returning once reminded of it. "I don't know." He answered honestly. "I thought to help me decide at least how far I could go. But I have no clue how far two and a half gold Ducats will take me."

"You haven't traveled much, have you?" The pale witcher asked.

"I left the witcher Bastion only a week ago. I don't know any other life." Jerome admitted with a heavy heart.

The pale witcher grinned, his teeth gleaming orange in the bonfire's glow. "Between the two of us, we make a good witcher. Travel with me and I'll show you the path."

"A short wolf and a week griffin, what a pair we make." Jerome mused.

"Don't expect you'll ever get away with calling me that ever again." He shot back with a stern tone and pointed finger. "My name is Vesemir."


End file.
